normal and nothing
by glitter and razzmatazz
Summary: there are two sides to every war. good and evil often get confused. she's so glad he understands—BlaisePansy.


**a/n:** i ship this couple really hard okay.

**disclaimer: **disclaimed.

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[**normal**_and_**nothing**]

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_it's over. the dark lord is dead. it's time to hide_.

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_Bastard_, Pansy Parkinson thinks when she sees Harry Potter's startled expression, illuminated by the blinding flash of Voldemort's final _Avada Kedavra. _

She's crouched behind a heap of rubble—what used to be the grand foyer of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She clutches her wand so tightly that her nails dig into her numb palm and her knuckles feel hollow. Her pale skin is corrupted with dirt, grime, and dried blood; her breathing, ragged.

The battlefield goes silent for what feels like hours. _It can't be over, can it? That can't be the end. _But then the whole area explodes in cheers and tired bodies pile over the so-called chosen one. There are pops and cracks that tear at her ears as people apparate away. Voldemort's forces are collapsing the way the Ministry's did a mere year ago.

It doesn't take Pansy long to realize she's alone. So she scrambles to pick herself up off the crumbling stone walkway and twists into oblivion with an earsplitting snap.

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She goes sprinting through the Slytherin girls' dorm room at lightning speed, _accio_-ing every possession she can possibly think of (as well as some things that aren't hers). Spell books, socks, a cauldron, a handful of chocolate frogs, her moving-photo album, her spare robes, jewelry, underwear… She leaves her edition of Monster Book of Monsters behind, because she feels that bringing it along might well be counterproductive.

Spinning into the boys' room (because she can), she whips around her wand and gathers every last artifact she can, dropping it into her trunk with a flick of her wrist. Bezoars, pixie dust, crushed salamander, gillyweed… It all comes flying out of desk drawers and from under four-poster beds.

She leaves the entire Slytherin house looking as though a tornado ripped through it thrice. She figures that it only matches the rest of the school.

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Her hopes of exiting the smoking building swiftly and inconspicuously are hampered by the fact that the charm has been recast over the complex. She tries to apparate, but nothing happens.

And she knows that it can't be a good idea to waltz out the front door, covered in blood and gore and Slytherin crests like nothing's wrong. Best case scenario, Neville slashes her across the throat with his ridiculous ruby sword all tarnished with snake guts.

She cringes at the thought.

_Maybe the Room of Requirement?_ she reasons, because quite honestly, she has great need of it. Unless it's already occupied by those "Dumbledore's Army" prats who aren't secretive in the slightest and aren't fooling anybody.

(Not that it matters now, she reminds herself.)

.

A few years ago, Malfoy had told her all of the secrets of the building, hoping to sound big and impressive, as though he actually knew what he was doing.

"I heard there's a path right to Honeydukes under some old crone's statue," he claimed. "I don't know why I would ever need it after third year when I can go to Hogsmeade whenever I want. Father's permission, you see. He has quite a bit of sway…"

"Yes, yes, your father. We're all fucking aware," mumbled Millicent from the adjacent table, her head in a potions book that Pansy was almost certain was turned upside-down. "Get to the point."

"Right. Well. I haven't actually been there. I know for a fact that bloody Potter has," he sneered, poison dripping into his voice. "That's how he got back before I could reach Snape. I'm absolutely sure of it."

Pansy nodded, apathetically.

"What, with that stupid invisibility cloak! It's like he's above the rules. Thinks himself a right king."

"Whatever, Draco."

"I mean, _God. _He gets away with everything because of stupid Dumbledore picking the worst in class as his favorite. Him and Weasel and ugly Hermione Granger…"

He was killing her buzz. "If you're done ranting, I'll be in the library," she said, rolling her eyes.

As she left, she could hear Draco mutter wildly to himself until Millicent slammed her book on the table and cried, "Draco, will you just _fucking_ shut up, okay?"

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Shaking her head at the memory, Pansy turns the corner and slips down the next shadowy, empty corridor.

"_Lumos_."

She tends to look at her feet when she walks, as if avoiding the stares of others. She always hated that bitchy way girls judge you with one look. That's why she used to revel in the attentions of Draco and Blaise and Theodore. She could cling to a handsome arm, and the disapproving looks transformed, morphed into jealous glares, so she decided.

Being the victim of envy, she had concluded, was much more fun than being the victim of unwarranted hate.

It is because she stares at the ground that she didn't notice the figure looming in the distance. She ignored the goose bumps rising on her arms, the faint chill that descended upon the dungeons, mistaking it for the occasional gale let in by a broken window. She failed to recognize that the lights lowered and the candles blew out.

It isn't until a faint moan emerges from somewhere behind her left ear and a bumpy, slimy hand grabs her wrist and she starts flying backwards and she feels like all of the happiness she had ever experienced is vanquished that she realizes that she is in much more danger than ever before.

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Screaming feels futile, and Pansy doesn't think she could produce a sound anyway, even if she tried with all of her might. Her arm feels excruciatingly heavy, and a sinking feeling coats her skin and seeps into her veins, and the halls get progressively darker and darker, her field of view shrinks smaller and smaller, and she can see her breath in front of her nose – it's practically frozen.

She now knows exactly what sort of trouble she's in. Her wand slips between numb fingers, and she just cannot conjure that happy thought that is her escape.

Further and further into the dungeons they travel – and Pansy swears the temperature is fifty below zero the way she's trembling so violently.

_Patronus, patronus…happiness, I need it, I need—_

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

When Blaise's silvery beam of light flashes past her eyes and she falls to the ground, Pansy can't help but break down.

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"I was so scared!"

She's sobbing into his chest. It's so out of character for her – she's just as surprised as he is. She ruins the front of his shirt with her mascara trail and hastily apologizes, but he waves it away.

"It's full of burn marks already," he says. "And not to sound like a rich jerk, but I am plenty capable of buying a new one, thank you very much."

She only wails louder.

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"I guess those dementors didn't really take our side after all. Maybe they feared you-know-who, too – and they just did it because he'd give them our souls or something."

Pansy sniffs. "I don't think we have to call him that anymore."

"Yeah, I guess…" Blaise trails off thoughtfully.

"What happened to the others?"

Blaise frowns. "Crabbe's dead," he notes abruptly. "Theo and Goyle got out okay, I think. Millicent and the Greengrass sisters escaped at first chance. I saw Draco leave with his parents right away once, you know, shit went down. And a lot of Death Eaters bit the dust."

She nods.

"So that's it," he concludes lamely.

"So that's it," she repeats.

He gets up and brushes rubble off his robes, leaving her sitting on the cold ground.

"Maybe I'll see you?"

"Maybe…" she agrees reluctantly, pursing her lips and brushing unruly hair behind an ear.

As he starts to walk off, regret (as though right on cue) instantly wells up on her and she shoots to her feet like a bolt of lightning, a spell shooting from enchanted wood.

"Blaise, wait."

He spins around, his torn, green scarf whipping around and coming loose from its knot around his neck.

"Yeah?"

"I have no idea what to do now."

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Easily, they saunter through the intoxicated crowds in the Great Hall at six in the morning, hoods concealing their traitorous faces, revealing no green or serpentine logos. She stays close to him just in case; still, she's gun-shy from one hell of an evening.

They're embraced by hot, humid air when they exit the castle – both teens cast off their hoods.

"You can come back with me. My mum likes you," Blaise informs her.

"I didn't think she liked anyone, really."

"Well, she doesn't _hate_ you," he replies, sheepishly, before adding, "You _are _a pureblood, yes?"

"What the _hell_ sort of question is that?"

He smirks, a tug at the corner of his chapped lips and grips her arm – and for the second time in mere hours, she goes spinning off into oblivion.

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_His house is lovely_, Pansy thinks, _but mighty crowded._

Tents are set up haphazardly throughout the property's span. The lawn is in various states of disorder – grass uprooted, rubbish lying around in heaping piles, people lying down and sleeping in every which way in different levels of concealment (or a lack thereof).

Crinkling her nose, Pansy finds it a little repulsive.

"It's the last safe house left," Blaise explains almost immediately. "Ministry officials started rounding up friends and family right after…well, you know. I guess the Imperius charms he cast wore off right away. Anyway, our estate is so far out of the way that it's nearly untraceable. Mum doesn't like being stalked by the paparazzi, you see. It works out well if you don't mind having absolutely no privacy."

"But I don't get it," she replies. "He was just killed hours ago."

"Things happen quickly," he says, glancing over at a former Death Eater and his family nursing each other's wounds. "Besides, the Order was conducting raids regularly. It's not just Death Eaters here, you know. Plenty of others since they vowed to attack Slytherins and werewolves and pure-bloods not directly in line with them"

He scowls. "They think they're the good guys. But look over there!"

He points to an elderly warlock, weeping softly, clutching a cursed wound. She bites her lip.

"They caused just as much pain in this war."

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After a hurried run-in with Blaise's frazzled mother and her seventh rich and glamorous husband, Blaise drags Pansy up to his room.

"I don't think I can spend another moment watching our house become a makeshift-hospital," he scowls. "I know it sounds awful, but it's so weird.

"Oh! And let me go grab you some chocolate. You're probably still recovering. Frankly, I could use some too…"

He disappears through the threshold of his door. Pansy, unable to limit her curiosity, paws about Blaise's room—they had always been friendly since the Sorting Ceremony in their first year when she lost her wand after dinner and he graciously returned it to her moments after she had simply lost hope, breaking down in Professor Snape's office.

She finds plenty of pictures framed about his silver walls—shots of the England National Quidditch team, group poses of the Slytherin house just outside the dungeon, a few of his family, and one especially sweet photo on his nightstand—of him and Draco and Daphne and Theo and her, collaborating on a potions paper in the library—Theo pouring over his parchment, Daphne and Draco glaring at one another, herself, staring off into space, and, most interestingly of all, Blaise, stealing a coy glance at her, carelessly flipping his book open.

She sets the picture down and dissolves into tears again.

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He calms her down when he comes back, setting the bar of dark chocolate on the nightstand, and whisking her into his arms, stroking her hair.

"If they just handed over Potter," she whispers into his collarbone, "then my entire family wouldn't be dead."

He lays a feathery-light kiss on the top of her head. "I know, Pansy. I know." He keeps saying it over and over until her eyes are raw and she's out of tears to shed. He keeps saying it until she falls asleep in his bed and he tucks her in with an extra blanket and leaves.

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He sets himself up with some pillows to rest on the plush carpet of his floor, but he doesn't sleep a wink.

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When she wakes up twelve hours later, he's gone. She eases herself from a chrysalis of sheets, her eyes nearly too puffy to open and the roots of bruises just beginning to blossom on her pale white skin—souvenirs from the Battle of Hogwarts that seems so long ago to her now.

Her feet meet the floor and the clock on the wall informs her that it's seven at night. Discombobulated, she grabs a new set of clothes and washes up in the bathroom. She figures no one will mind. Cleanliness can only help.

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She emerges from the bathroom with warm skin and wet hair, still pretty exhausted, physically and mentally.

(And she figures the latter sort of tiredness is the former ten-fold).

Blaise had returned to his room, and she walks in on him collapsed on his bed, staring up at his white ceiling, with deep bags under each dark eye.

"It's going to be a long time," he says, "before anything returns to the way it used to be. Maybe Hogwarts will even rid itself of Slytherin's name. Maybe it's become a disgrace in their minds."

Wordlessly, she crawls to his side, resting her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

"Apparently, Draco and his family showed up on our doorstep a few hours ago," he adds. "He and Theo are in the living room downstairs last I checked if you want to go see them."

"I'm not leaving," she replies quickly.

He sighs. "You never did eat your chocolate."

"Whatever."

"I hope this whole thing's normal and nothing before long. However much it takes to get there. It's been too ugly for too long. Even all of us were scared of him. That's what the Order has to understand. No one likes war."

"Except for Bellatrix. And Greyback."

"They were just batshit crazy."

She pauses a moment. "Thank you. I guess I haven't said that yet."

He grins. "So Pansy Parkinson does indeed have manners? You would've thought it."

"Shut up. I'm only bitchy most of the time. But I have my moments."

A laugh. He wraps an arm around her.

And she starts getting this crazy idea—that maybe, just maybe, they won't always have to be in hiding and that bastard Potter will spare their lives and society will take what's left of their world back into her arms, smooth over the ruts like nothing ever went wrong. Normal, like Blaise said. Maybe it could happen.

But when she envisions the scene of the Battle—the scent of death looming over the castle and the spells bursting before the moon hanging in the humid sky, she remembers that nothing comes without sacrifice.

Blaise gently brushes away the hair on her cheek, and she can feel his smile when his lips trace over her skin.

It might not be a happy story, but their downfall is not the last page.

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end.

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End file.
